Cobalt Blue stood her ground. She recounted what we’d seen and done. Under cross-examination, she admitted she hadn’t actually seen the defendant strike or push Ms. Franklin, but it seemed Ms. Franklin had been pushed down a moment before. It seemed obvious who had done it, especially when the defendant ran away.
I was put under oath, although I said that wasn’t necessary since I cannot lie. I repeated pretty much what Jen had said.
Samuels called James O’Neil to the stand.
“Mr. O’Neil, did you yell at Ms. Franklin?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Some guy attacked her, and I was frantic to make sure she was okay.”
“What race was he?”
“I don’t notice things like that. Hispanic or light Black.”
“What happened next?”
“He took off. I ran up and asked if I could help her.”
“You asked her?”
“I was pretty freaked out, seeing that type of thing. My adrenaline must have been pumping, and I may have been yelling at her.”
“But then you ran away.”
“I saw this police officer charging at me. When I was younger, I fell into a bad crowd and had some altercations with police that I’m deeply ashamed of. I figured she’d peg me for the attacker. It’s stupid, but I got real scared and took off.”
“And then?”
“She ran me down and tackled me.”
“Did you resist arrest?”
“No. I was really scared.”
“What happened next?”
“She slapped me hard across the face.”
“Are you referring to Detective Lu?”
“Yes.” He pointed at Jen. “Her.”
Jen was called back. She admitted she had hit the defendant but said he’d been resisting arrest, and she was trying to subdue him with as little force as possible. She was lying for me, but I guess trying to save her ass too.
I was questioned again.
I really wish I knew how to lie.
“It felt good to hit him,” I said.
* * *
Makela Franklin beelined for the exit, her shoulders slouching in humiliation and her eyes clinging to the ground like she was hunting for a spot to dig a hole.
Jen said to me, “Threatened? Paid off?” I said I’d put my money on threatened, but it could have been a bit of each.
The parade of bad guys headed for the door. Richard veered off for a second and paused next to us. “Too bad,” he said with what seemed genuine sadness. “It could have been fun.” And then left.
Celeste came over and sighed. “Justice in fucking action,” she said.
18
In any given week, Jen usually enjoyed spending a few nights sleeping on her own. She would cook dinner or hang with Ava and Taylor in the apartment, watch a program, or read a book and tumble off to sleep. And yet, with the clammy feeling that the differences with Zach were irreconcilable, she felt lonely. Unwanted. Crappy.
It was the late afternoon. She did her laundry. She stewed over the trial that day. She drank a beer while Ava ironed a shirt for work—tonight, a candlelight tour of the White House.
“Real candles?”
“Yep, real candles all over the place.”
Ava had a PhD in American history but now found herself doing DC tours for the infinitely rich. The company she gigged for had preferential access to the Capitol, the White House, the National Gallery, the National Archives, and—one of Ava’s favorites—the Dwight D. Eisenhower Executive Office Building, which was closed to the public. She led groups of two, five, or six through these sites. It was gig work, which meant everything about it sucked, including some of the rich men and women who figured her body came with the price of the tour.
Jen went for a run. Couldn’t get her mind off the trial that morning. She found herself near Les and Christopher’s. They buzzed her up, and she told them about the miserable day in court.
Les said, “They got to her?”
“One way or another. Brooks wasn’t happy.”
“Don’t blame him.”
“I mean, with me.”
“Not your fault.”
“He had already scanned a transcript before I made it back to the station. Turns out, I hit the suspect.”
Christopher looked appalled. He glared at Jen.
“It was, well … it was Chandler.”
Les explained to Christopher that in emergencies, the implants could direct instantaneous reactions. This was meant as a lifesaving measure.
Christopher said, “Was this guy threatening you?”
“No. It was strange. Like Chandler was flexing his muscles.”
Christopher stared at Les. The unspoken question: Could this happen to you?
“Hon, don’t worry. P.D. is a gentler soul than Chandler.”
Maybe, thought Jen, the synth implants reflect their hosts. Les definitely was an uncomplicated and gentle soul. Whenever he’d encouraged Jen to stand up for herself, whenever he said his Cobalt thing, Jen always knew he was taking a toke of vicarious pleasure. She, on the other hand? Submissive and eager to please, angry at herself for being so, and starting to figure out all this was tissue papering over some fucking deep rage. Overreacting to Zach. Or having a surrogate like Chandler act out for her.
“Well,” said Les, “screw Brooks. Screw them all.”
They shared a small joint. Christopher told them stories from the exciting world of interstate transportation. They giggled. Les whipped up some Thai fried bananas. But all the while, Jen felt the tension in the room, like Christopher was just waiting for her to leave so he could tell Les in no uncertain terms that he’d better not let Jen get him into trouble. Les had once confided to her that Christopher freaked out after he, Les, had come home smashed up from a fight; going rogue at work would be grounds for divorce.
* * *
Jen lay in bed, the buzz worn off, her mind racing through it all once again. Her insomnia-producing list now included what she hadn’t bothered telling Les. When Brooks yelled at her that day, it had not only been for the botched trial but for again bringing up Eden only days after he warned her to drop it.
“Sir,” she had said, “I think there may be a link between Eden and a computer co-op.”
“You’re now worried about computer stores.”
“A co-op. They’re—”
“I know what a co-op is, Detective.”
“I really think it would be good if I—”
He grabbed his head with both hands. “I’m coming down with a bad case of déjà vu. I told you to drop it, remember?”
Jen didn’t say anything.
“Detective, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir. I remember.”
“Something you don’t understand about ‘drop it’?”
“No sir.”
“No Eden crap. No co-op crap. No computer store crap. You start poking around crap, and I’m gonna smell it a mile away.”
19
Thursday, July 19—13:28:51
We were a block away and easily beat the ambulance to the house on Irving Street NW, across from the Tubman Elementary School. Harriet Tubman, escaped slave, hero of the Underground Railroad, spy for the Union Army during the Civil War, and later suffragette.
We reached the home of Enrique and Miguel Estevan, father and son. The old man, very old, lay motionless on the indigo living room couch. His ash-gray face sagged as if his skin was five sizes too big. Skin puddled below his eyes like deflated balloons, and wattles of the stuff drooped beneath his jaw. His lipless mouth gaped open, but it showed surprisingly white teeth. And an incongruous full head of hair was so black it was almost blue—it had to be dyed but looked convincingly real.
His breaths were shallow. We found his pulse.
The younger man—he seemed to be in his sixties—was frantic.
We reassured him the ambulance would be here any second.
He p
ointed toward framed photographs on a side table. He grabbed one. A photo of a man in his sixties with his arm slung around the shoulder of a handsome young man.
“That’s us.”
Jen nodded in sympathy. Father and son when both were much younger.
“You don’t understand … Where are they?”
“Almost here.”
“Look closer,” he said.
Jen glanced at the old man lying on the couch.
“No, look here.” He tapped the younger man in the photo. “That’s him. That’s my son.” He pointed to the couch. “That’s him on the couch.”
“But—”
He stretched a helpless hand toward the man on the couch. “I’m the older one in the picture.” He stabbed a finger at the young man in the photo. “This was taken six weeks ago.”
I don’t want you to think I’m a heartless lump of clever cells, but binary programming didn’t prepare me for people being nuts. Sorry, there I go. Prepare me for people with mental illness. I study it; we’ve attended courses. Jen corrects me when I say jerky things like that. But it just isn’t logical. Dementia I kind of get, because I’m used to dealing with inferior human memories, so an impairment on that front never seems like a stretch. This one didn’t feel like dementia, so I figured this man in his sixties required help.
The ambulance conveyed us to the hospital. We waited. Jen and I don’t always see eye to eye, but she agreed that Enrique Estevan—the younger-looking one who claimed he was the father—didn’t have a firm grasp on reality. I tried to impress her with a clever line: “Maybe reality doesn’t have a firm grasp on itself.” But it didn’t entirely make sense, although a half hour later I turned out to be a prophet.
We checked Jen’s messages. Shot the shit with other officers who had dragged people into the ER. Wandered back and sat next to Enrique, who squirmed on the plastic chair like he was sitting on top of an ant hill.
Thirty-three minutes later, a doctor came out and looked around like he needed to find someone and yet was hoping that person might not be there. He called out, “Mr. Estevan?” and when Enrique looked up, he came over to him.
“I’m so sorry, but your son has died of liver failure.”
Your son? Jen said to me. Doesn’t he mean your father?
“He was only forty-six,” Enrique Estevan said.
And looked ninety-six.
We tagged along while Mr. Estevan filled out forms. We stepped away when he spoke to the hospital chaplain and rushed forward to hold him when we thought he was going to hit the deck. We rested a hand on his back while he met again with the doctor.
Mr. Estevan said, “He was completely normal until a week ago.”
“There is a condition called”—the doctor glanced at his tablet—“Berardinelli-Seip lipodystrophy. I never heard of it until today. Maybe thirty Americans have it, maybe a thousand in the entire world. It’s extremely rare.”
It was caused by a gene mutation. Subcutaneous fat disappears in parts of the body, hence the sagging skin. It normally manifests in early childhood, progresses slowly, and has a variety of symptoms. There have been reports of cases where it starts later and progresses fairly quickly. But nothing that raced so quickly to death. The doctor could not explain it, but he did a decent enough job summarizing the same Wikipedia articles I was pulling up.
I buzzed for a car, and as we drove Mr. Estevan home, it felt like a hearse.
For a while he cried. Then he moaned and rocked himself back and forth. “This can’t be happening,” he said. I felt bad for the guy.
We phoned his sister in Baltimore and delivered the blues.
Jen asked Mr. Estevan if he’d be alright on his own until his sister arrived, but even I knew it was a dumb question. What could alright possibly mean when you’d just lost your child? The one who suddenly looked old enough to be your father. Or grandfather.
Cruel me did wonder why Enrique hadn’t exited. Maybe this could have been prevented.
As we headed out the front door, he was still crying and moaning, “Poor Miguel. My beautiful, beautiful boy.”
I called for a car. I didn’t want to make a deal about my smart line, but I guess I did a bit, so I said, “Weird, huh?”
At first Jen didn’t answer, but just as the car arrived, she said, “Damn if you weren’t right again, Chandler. Something is fucking up reality.”
20
“I needed to talk to someone.”
Not exactly a catchy refrain from a top-forty love song, but that’s what Jennifer said to Zach a couple of hours after she made it back from the hospital.
“Okay.”
Dead silence on the phone line. Cross-legged on her bed. A chili-red T-shirt. A pair of Zach’s cotton boxer shorts, white and cozy.
“Kind of crappy way for me to start, wasn’t it?”
“It was a start, though.”
She could hear him smiling as he said this. And this image of him smiling at her made her smile, and this made her relax, and this made her feel her love for him.
“Zach, not telling me you contacted the co-op folks, well, I felt untrusted, like I didn’t meet your standards.” She looked down at her legs, at her feet, at the sheets. “It wasn’t a big thing, it … Next time, just tell me.”
“I’m—”
But Jen didn’t even wait for him to finish his apology. “Oh, screw it all. I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Chandler. It’s important and weird, and I should have. And I know you’re going to ask me whether I’ll get him taken out, but I can’t talk about that right now.” Her tone became pleading. “But what’s the deal with the co-op?”
“They’re kind of in hiding.”
“What, like they’ve gone underground?”
“Being careful. They think it was arson. They think they’re being targeted.”
“It wasn’t. And why would they be targeted by anyone?”
“I’m telling you what they said.”
Drama queens, she thought.
He said, “Do you still need to reach them?”
She thought of Captain Brooks warning her repeatedly to do her job and forget about these rumors. “I guess not,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I do need.”
* * *
They cuddled naked in his bed, the soft reading light pointed away from them. The duvet had been pushed onto the floor. Her hair was a mess, his face was red, and there was a wet spot on the sheets.
She told him about the middle-aged man who had looked as old as time. She told him about the father’s grief.
Zach told her about a conversation he’d had with Mary Sue about exit. About how so many parents were willing to sacrifice more than a quarter of their lives just so their children could do what they had chosen to give up.
“It’s kind of like the game we used to play, of who you’d run into a fire to save,” Jen said.
“It seems that for most parents, the answer would be pretty simple,” Zach said. “I guess exit is like that.”
“So your new best friends—”
“Don’t be snarky.”
“Your friends”—this time she mimicked an emotionless robot voice from old sci-fi movies—“aren’t exit fans?”
“They agree with what I’ve been saying: it’s the wrong solution to real problems.”
She regretted she had mentioned exit. “God, can we talk about—I don’t know—anything else?”
They made weekend plans. They caught up.
But all the while, she grew ever more certain that he wasn’t going to let his parents die just so he could live.
And all the while Jen was thinking: My mother wouldn’t have run into a house where there was even a candle burning to save me.
21
Monday, July 23—16:48:09
On Monday, near the end of the workday, Les returned to the office. He cupped his hand behind his ear. “I hear a cold beer calling out to me.” He slung himself onto an empty chair. “What a complete bitch of a day.�
�
I said howdy to P.D. I do that sometimes, although she says I’m improperly using our comms link. P.D. is okay, but she’s a tad on the cold side. She’s brilliant at describing places and suspects, but she doesn’t show much emotion. I do have to say, though, her written reports are the best in the business.
Les looked around. “Hammerhead and Amanda not in?”
On cue, Amanda stepped through the doorway with her usual athletic verve and a big pink bubble forming on her lips; Hammerhead lumbered in right behind. Amanda was pleasantly pale from her vacation spent indoors somewhere. They seemed startled to see us, and Hammerhead blushed.
Jen’s phone rang. One of our regular customers—a couple in their early sixties who were already getting pestered by their two kids to start thinking about exit. Seems the kids just organized a farewell party to try to nudge them along. We piled on the reasonable and calm tones so thickly the phone line started sagging under the weight of platitudes. After ascertaining that everyone was going to be fine, Jen hung up.
Les was staring out the window.
“When did that tree start looking so bad?”
“Les, where have you been for the past two months?”
“Anyway, want to go for a beer?”
“Maybe.”
Les turned to Hammerhead and Amanda. “Either of you game?”
And damn if they didn’t first look to each other before they simultaneously answered no. A minute later, Amanda left, followed by Hammerhead, who, with his usual clumsiness, was simultaneously acting much too casual and much too elaborate as he explained why he had to leave.
Jen, are they …
God, Chandler, you’re so thick. Of course they are.
Les said to Jen, “Last week you had that weird case, right? The young guy who died of old age.” He waited for her to nod. “Well, I had the same thing today.”
Jen asked me for the odds. I said that without knowing what caused these strange deaths, the question of odds was meaningless.
Les was talking. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was disgusting.”
The Last Exit Page 12